Mobius Goes on The Dating Game
by Neftzer
Summary: With a title like that, need I say more?


_Witchblade_, time indefinite  
Rated "T" for Sara Petz-zini; offers no easy answers

**_Mobius Goes on The Dating Game_  
...a brief, superfluous treatise on isolation and verisimilitude**

* * *

It did not matter how he came to be there, a giant among the over-size retro flowers, jutting into the third dimension from the set piece walls about him. 

To remind the participants of pollination, he interpreted. Of their perceived duty to procreate, to multiply themselves. To find the best-evolved among their species, or the strongest, the smartest--those with the most stamina,--and to mate in an effort, however veiled in romantic dinners, age-old dictums of courtly love, a late-twentieth century argot of devotion and respect--to produce viable progeny. 

The flowers did not work on his mind, though. He was not there for the simple sex act. Not there to sate base urge, nor instinctual compunction. This, he knew, could be done anywhere, with anyone that might catch his even momentary notice. 

That nothing came of such instances was no surprise to him. He did not select such partners to be more than transitory, an afternoon--perhaps a weekend. No, it was his solitary existence that he sought to heal, or to, at a minimum, place closure on. Was, he (as he often imagined) alone in the universe, a species apart? A mule bred of donkey and horse--yet itself apart, separate, without a people, a nation, a tribe? 

Had the Dragons, then, been his tribe? His nationality? For many years it seemed he had thought so, had lived as though they were so. Were they the sole peers of his life, and now, without them he was truly, irrevocably without equal? There was Ian Nottingham left, to be sure. Even so, this talisman--this Blade (that he had only recently come to know of and understand)-- this that sired Ian as much as had the genetic enhancements and chemical alterations, had gifted Nottingham with an equal, a half to his half, a she to his he. And so even Nottingham, nature-tampered as he was, the most lone of the lone, could make generous use of the simple pronoun, "we." 

Was it with faulted logic, then, that he, Hector Mobius, should search for similar grammatical confluence? 

* * *

"Bachelorette Number One," he began, as instructed by the host. "In Blake's _Songs of Innocence_, which do you find to be the most emotionally moving engraving?" 

As the girl struggled to answer, though he could not see her through the partition, he could smell the tincture of products that had been added to her hair: spritz, gloss, spray, crème rinse. And he could too easily name (the task bored him in its simplicity) the hair dryer make, model and setting that she had used to blow it dry. 

"Please list any identifying marks you may have," he asked of the group, categorically narrowing down, through their speech patterns, their respective hometowns. By such tactics he learned indirectly that Bachelorette Number Two had been born in Evansville, Indiana, spent three summers in Sri Lanka among some British missionaries--Anglican, and had only recently quit a relationship with a South Bostonian educated at Bryn Mawr. 

He crossed out, "Convince me to let you live," as a question on the card of questions he had written up for the taping, instead skipping to, "Please share the myth that best illustrates your own life thus far," and asking it of Bachelorette Number Three. 

He could hear clearly enough as she shifted in her seat. The sound gave her away. She was wearing a pantsuit of unmilled silk. It called to his mind--briefly (no more than the blink of an eye)--Irons' ward, Sashee, and how once a young lady she had often worn similar fabrics on her holidays to Irons' estate. Tiny little Sashee who had been so dreadfully afraid of him in the beginning she had refused to be left in the room alone with him--indeed--even a wing of the house with him, unless Ian were there as well. It was only then that the reticent toddler would tolerate his presence. 

He admitted inwardly he had been rough at the time--unused to gentility. Ignorant of dealing with children other than he had been dealt with: loudly, violently, and with an eye to neglect. It was right that Sashee, the child, had not trusted him. He paused to contemplate whether--even now--he was a man who could be trusted. His mind, after all, was scarred like engraved crystal--the genius in its comprehension, in its ability to relate to the basic planes of reality teetering, as had Blake's, upon the abyss of insanity. 

What did he expect to find here, today, among these three chosen? Number One, who listed her identifying marks as a tattoo on her hip reading "Sammy," in calligraphic script. Number Two, who had asked, coyly, if Blake wasn't one of the characters on _Dynasty_. And Number Three, who believed her life best-translated through some corrupted, animated version of traditionally tragic _The Little Mermaid_, singing and dancing and living happily in the end. 

Had she but said, even, Athena, sprung from the head of Zeus fully-formed, wise among her brother gods. Or Jael, simple but daring in her cunning--and Sisera with a tent peg in his brains to prove it. Either answer would have made all the difference in his world. 

Of these three, he knew, none were deadly, though any could get you killed. It remained for him only to conclude that in the circumstances, such a trade-off would be far from beneficial--to either party. 

The cameras continued to roll as the host called upon him to make his choice among the three, but he had ceased to listen. He stood from his chair, leaving his notecards behind. The day had proven fruitless. He remained Hector Mobius, Frankenstein's monster; sharp of intellect, keen of focus, noble of heart; without match or equal, lest his master consent to fashion him one. 

Yet, was his existence, as it was, one he should wish to thrust upon another? Or should there be peace for him in the knowledge that he alone had such a treacherous path to travel? And that his yearning, fruitless search would end, where it began. With him, a circle complete (and solitary) as perfection. 

He found his thoughts on the subject inconclusive. Reaching in to his pocket he pulled out a business card someone had given him: "Chuck Woolery," it said. "_Love Connection_." It was early in the day. Surely, finding his way to the studio listed as Woolery's contact address could not be too time-consuming. 

. 

_...the end..._

. 

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Witchblade_, nor the rights to its characters. Call Warner Bros. and/or Top Cow if you want to talk to people that matter. I'm not in their employ, and I'm not making any money off of their creation. 

This was written for wormie of saltymonkpictures.com (though I sincerely doubt she expected what it turned out to be, I know I did not. But you can't predict Hector Mobius. He is, after all, clinically mad, and has very little truck with sanity as we know it.) 

* * *

by: Neftzer 2002  
_Feedback Appreciated!_   
More Neftzer fiction at http://www.royaltoby.com/shack 


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